


Welcome to the End

by pyre13



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adventure, Cannon Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Reapers, Road Trip, Season/Series 15 Speculation, Slow Burn, hopefully in character, it's all part of the plan, like glacial, redemption arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-07-30 06:25:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20092738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyre13/pseuds/pyre13
Summary: "The thing about being God; no one takes you seriously. No really. To Atheists, I’m just a construct of the human psyche, a personification of humanities natural fear of death and the unknown.To the devout, I’m a stern and punishing figure, and life is a test.To my children, I’m the father who abandoned them and to me… well… despite the eons I’ve still not really figured that out.To the Winchesters I’d like to believe I’ve been as true to life as they needed me to be."------------Steeped in myth and magic, drawing together plot points from the entire series join me as the story comes full circle. This is what I envision for Season 15, a long and painful trek through the world we've come to know and love and why it could only ever really end one way.Beware - here be monsters!





	1. Welcome to the End

** **

The thing about being God; no one takes you seriously. No really. To Atheists, I’m just a construct of the human psyche, a personification of humanities natural fear of death and the unknown.

To the devout, I’m a stern and punishing figure, and life is a test.

To my children, I’m the father who abandoned them and to me… well… despite the eons I’ve still not really figured that out.

To the Winchesters I’d like to believe I’ve been as true to life as they needed me to be.

The thing is, I never really wanted to be _God_, not “A god”, or a saviour, a father, a commander; I wouldn’t have given them free will if I had. I’ve never really seen the point in worship beyond the necessary functional obedience it ingrained in my Angels. Never enjoyed the unquestioned faith put in me or the blind, righteous indignation when I didn’t live up to their expectations. I’m just God. Just a man. Just the one who came first.

Maybe that’s why I took to Sam and Dean like I did. They didn’t believe in me, not really, and despite my admittedly appalling behaviour and embarrassing mistakes, they never really hated me either. I just _was_, and for a long time, that was enough. Being Chuck was so simple, being their god, their creator, it was too big, too much, for a long time all I wanted to be was their friend.

Watching how they’ve grown over the years after they found me, out of my mind on drugs and delirium has taught me more than thousands of years watching their species grow. I didn’t make them the way they are, that’s all on them; if I’m honest, I couldn’t have imagined them if I tried.

Humanity like to think of themselves as my greatest creation; I imagine they’d be disappointed if they knew they were just a lonely man’s attempt at building his own toy family.

Somewhere in this most recent life - I’d found it – lost in myself and stumbling between chapters of someone else’s story and the bottle of a bottle, it had kicked in the door and torn me from my comfort to throw me into a world I didn’t understand. Being human certainly puts things in perspective – everyone should try it. They brought friendship, such as they were able to offer, family, and a whirlwind of adventure even I couldn’t have imagined.

I don’t know when I chose them, whether it was right back when Mary and John Winchester were spiting hell at one another and I was struck by the fragile line between love and hate. Or watching Azazel raise a broken man to a doomed family. Somewhere along the line I found what little empathy I had then winding itself deeper into their lives. I stepped in. I changed things. Dean lived through the fire, Sam stuffed an army man in the door of a squeaky Impala. When they stopped for coffee they were moving on before the latest Wanted add flashed across the news. And day by day, adventure by adventure, they grew, and learned, and _won_.

In another life, in another billion lives, where they grew up loved, where they grew up safe, where they grew up together and apart, broken and hail, they’ll call the ending cruel, and unnecessary, they’ll flinch where they shouldn’t and they’ll _fail_. In countless worlds, worlds without Rowena, without Meg, without Crowley, without Gabriel, without Lucifer, without Castiel, without magic, or menace, or _love_. They stumble. And they fall.

\-----------------

It’s cold in the Bunker now, always, empty, and echoing, where laughter and comradery had been overflowing. Michael did that. They did that. Brought a fresh Hell into the world and failed to keep it on its leash. Chuck being there doesn’t change that, doesn’t make it feel any more like home in the way he had last time.

“Can I ask you something?” Sam hesitates; terrified of the answer. There’s a brand new pistol lying on the desk that can kill anything and it’s glinting like it wont be forgotten

“Always,”

“Did you pick us? Or is this just the end of the line in a long long list of bad choices?”

“I gave humanity free will,” Chuck muses. “Not because they wanted it, you can’t want something you’ve never had, but because I was tired. I was tired of pushing this way, and pushing that way, and inevitably, watching it crumble and fail. Humans think I’m omnipotent Sam, but I’m not _perfect_.” He snorts. “I’m just… really powerful and really bored. And now, I’m really old, and I’m really tired.”

“So all this, Jack losing his soul, Mom dy- This wasn’t some great plan.”

“No. There’s never been a plan Sammy, just hope. And a long, long list of bad choices.”

“So what we put Jack down and then what – what are you going to do now? Disappear again?”

“I think you know,” Chuck smiles. “I think you’ve known for years, right back to the first time someone told you who you were. You and Dean, you weren’t supposed to be just Lucifer and Michael’s Vessels Sammy,” and here he finally pauses and glances to the side. “You were meant to be their replacements. Story’s come full circle Sam.”

Sam… isn’t shocked. Chuck’s right, he’s seen this coming in the depth of his mind for a decade, there’s no rush of fear or anger or betrayal, just an overwhelming sense that he has to get his side out first. That Chuck… Chuck is right, but he’s also wrong.

“What if we weren’t though,” He starts, dropping his head and wringing his fingers, Chuck might be familiar but he’s still _God_.

“Ok,”

“Dean and me, and Cas, I get it, I get how after all this the story comes full circle, I do. I get that you’re tired, and that you don’t want to do this anymore. Shit, we’ve been through enough that _I_ don’t want to do this anymore. But…” And here he pauses, deep breathes Sammy, deep breathes. “Chuck in the nicest way - the story is wrong.”

“Keep talking,”

“The Arch-Angels, Michael, Lucifer, Raphael, _Gabriel_,” he pauses and gulps, Gabriel’s death is still an open wound. “They made their choices, and we’ve all got to stand by that, but they made them with the wrong rule book. They wanted _family_, and I get it, I do, I get that you couldn’t be that, maybe never knew how, and tried your hardest anyway. You’ve seen my story, I _get_ it when your fathers maybe not the best person to be your _dad_. But… Dean and me; don’t make us repeat it. We might not make the same mistakes but we’ll make whole new ones.” Chuck, to his benefit seems to be mulling it over, so Sam takes a chance. “You gave us free will right?”

“Yes.”

“Then give us this, give the best fucking dad in the _world_ a chance to do it his way, don’t give him your playbook and watch it happen all over again. Lucifer – maybe it didn’t have to end the way it did.”

Sam’s desperate, Jack is out of control but he’s not beyond saving. Maybe all those millenia ago Lucifer had been the same way. Sam has to believe that Jack can be saved.

“I have to believe Dean’s family would choose differently.” Maybe, Chuck agrees.

“And I have to believe that Dean will choose differently.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t want to be God anymore right? That’s why you ran away.”

“I’m tired Sam,” Chuck sighs. “Heaven is falling and Amara and I… We’re tired of this, tired of it all. We’re still atoms, at the end of it all, we’d like our atoms to do something better than fight and cause trouble. It’s not like I’ve ever got it to go how I wanted. My influence… It’s never done anyone any good that they couldn’t have done for themselves. I brought Lucifer down on you for Me’s sake. I’m not _good _at this.”

“So what? You’re just going to let Heaven Fall? All those souls, all those people, you’re going to just, what? Let it play out?”

“I’ve got someone in mind for the job.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that.” Sam scowls. “What about the Angels? Cas says there aren’t enough to keep the lights on.”

“He’d be able to make more,” Chuck shrugs. “It’s not as difficult as everyone makes it out to be, they just don’t know the recipe. Jack did it.”

“But the Angels Chuck….” Sam hesitates. It’s one thing to tell a human he sucked at something, it’s entirely another to tell _God_. “They’re not _right_, are they? Not what you intended?”

“No,”

“And the Arch-Angels?”

“I wanted kids, wanted something, anything, that meant I wasn’t alone in the world. I thought if I made them using pieces of myself I’d like them.”

“You can’t make people from just pieces Chuck, they need to be whole.”

“Then, oh wise and wonderful Sam, what would you do?”

“I don’t know.” Sam sighs. “There’s no easy answer to this.”

“Not an easy one, no. I get the feeling Dean would quite happily sit back and watch it burn.”

“That’s not true! We’ve got family in Heaven Chuck, we’re doing everything we can.”

“I’d be an easy fix if Dean was me.” And he slips it in so casually that Sam nearly nods along.

“You’re kidding right?” Snorting Sam glances over, twiddling a whiskey glass in his fingers, but Chucks looking straight at him, fingers steepled and a pensive frown on his face. “You’ve got to be kidding… you can’t make _Dean…_” Pausing Sam sighs. He cannot possibly be having this conversation. “Do you know what Dean will do if you roofie him with God powers,” Sam’s eyebrows are in his fringe, eyes wide and ridiculous. “He’ll do something like give it to Cas.”

“Castiel hasn’t proven the best at handling the power I’ve given to him in the past,” Chuck mused, not disagreeing. Sam shrugged.

“It’s different now…” Sam paused. “Cas… He’s only ever tried to do what was right. I think he’s learned as much as all of us. He’s a _dad_ now, a real one. He’s choosing better. But Heaven will never forgive him, last time he walked in all juiced up he blew away an Arch-Angel and smote half of the Heavenly Host.”

“Tempestuous little thing.” Chuck frowns. Like he’d forgotten that particular adventure and wasn’t particularly fond of remembering it. “It’s an interesting thought.” And thank fuck that Chuck was starting to think again, starting to watch the story unfold; Sam could almost see the gogs turning. “I really did burden your species with an overabundance of conscience.”

“Some more than others.”

“Nature vs nurture.” Chuck sniffed. Sam felt light, a little weighed down by what felt like another demon deal, but light and happy because he’d been thinking about this for months, maybe years, just in little pieces that never quite came together. Briefly he paused to wonder how many of the tragedies they’d faced were specifically destined to bring them down this path – make them ready for what was to come.

“All of them,” Chuck confessed wistfully. “Humanity is free to choose, but the path… Even I don’t know how much of it is truly random. You, all of you, were _meant_ for this, but you also are the ones who chose to be _ready_.”

“What about Heaven?”

“Dean can raise the Angels.”

“Putting aside the – frankly ludicrous – fact that you want to make Dean _God_. I don’t think that’s going to work,” Sam said, shaking his head. “We’ve met a lot of Angels… don’t get me wrong… they’re very… obedient. But most of them are extremist whackjobs. Dean hates the Angels. ‘Cept Cas.” Chuck snorted.

“Castiel broke the mould. When I made the Angels, I hadn’t even thought about humanity.” Chuck pondered, crumbling bread between his knees in a very human display of thought. “I needed more hands, more minds, to build Heaven, and Heaven needed power. I’m strong but I’m not infinite, not how you understand it. There are still rules, fundamental truths about reality that even I can’t break.”

“Balance,” Sam assessed, watching as Chuck nodded.

“Balance in all things. Light Dark. Love Hate. Hunger Apathy. Energy cannot be created or destroyed. That one’s true too. There’s a reason Angels are made of high intensity light waves rather than fairy dust. I’d tell you what came before but you wouldn’t believe me. Despite your extensive experience, there’s no real truth behind magic, it’s all science in one way or another, most of it is just still so far beyond you it looks like magic.” He paused. “When I made the Angels I wasn’t making _friends_ Sam, I was making code, programs, walking, talking minions to do the stuff I didn’t want to. Cleaning up excess hydrogen from the Snap led to the inadvertent formation of the first suns. I didn’t know that was going to happen, not until it did, it had never been done before.”

There’s something human about Chuck that Sam can never quite make add up to _God_. They say that God made humanity in his own image and Sam can’t help but feel in some way that’s true, that _God_ is the most human of them all, flaws and all. That like Tesla, or Einstein, he was throwing stuff at the wall and waiting to see what stuck. Accidental genius that led to creating the universe.

Even here in the bunker, any of the Angels, even Cas, even Crowley who once _had_ been human, would have looked just slightly out of place in a way that Chuck just _didn’t_. He fit right in, like he’d been made for this world, or that it had been made for him.

“I didn’t know a lot of this would happen,” He shrugs. “I was just tinkering, I wanted to see what happened when that little red molecule and that little blue one combined and boom I had water. It took eons. What you’ve lived, what you’ve experienced – it’s not even a blink in the time I’ve been alive. So I made the Angels, because bringing all that _stuff _close enough together for it to become _something_ was taking forever. I made Angels because I was _lazy_ Sam.”

“Humans made Roomba’s,” Sam shrugs, watching with just a touch of delight as _God_ belly laughs, and wipes a little tear from his eye.

“Yeah I guess you did,” He huffs. “There’s only one bit he’s not going to like.”

“Oh there’s a _lot_ he’s not going to like,” Sam snorted, but he raised his eyebrow anyway.

“Arch-Angels,” Chuck flinched. “They’re… difficult. Difficult to make, I only just managed to cobble together the first four. I’m not sure there’s enough left to make more, and Heaven was designed to run with four. They are, unfortunately, fundamental to its make-up. They’re the Pillars of Heaven. Literally. Angels, Heaven can draw from them when they’re on board, but Arch-Angels are the filter, the foundation, the power lines to humanity. There’s only one left, and he’s locked in a box, it’s not enough.”

“But you brought Cas back with _almost_ Arch-Angel oomph, the other Angels thought he’d been chosen to ascend the throne of Heaven.”

“I gave Castiel power, but he wasn’t an Arch-Angel.” Shaking his head Chuck sighed. “I don’t know how to bridge the gap in a way you’d understand. They exist on planes you couldn’t even imagine. They’re made of elements you can’t even conceive. They gather power, what you call Grace, simply by being in the presence of the human soul. Like… solar panels. And they beam it straight to Heaven. It’s why their reservoir is so deep. They pull on the world around them. If Angels are Walmart budget batteries. Arch-Angels are soul powered star drives. They have no idea what they’re truly capable of.”

“Cas got an upgrade because he was lucky,” Chuck shrugged. “It’s all James Novak’s fault really; Devout Lover of Cheeseburgers. Cas doesn’t know it but he’s one of only a handful of Angels outside of the Arch-Angels to have stumbled on their True Vessel. The singular body in humanity which, through luck or… yeah destiny, was perfect to hold him. Jimmy Novak was meant to die,” Chuck confides. “A week after Castiel took his form, Jimmy Novak, his wife and daughter, were all scheduled to die on their way to church. He’d have gone to Heaven like a good Christian boy, and the world might just have stopped turning. Castiel chose him, he wasn’t guided, or sent, he found him all by himself, and Jimmy said yes. Claire is still alive because of that choice. It’s possible we’re all still alive because of that choice.”

“So being a True Vessel…”

“It’s like… I don’t know what it’s like.” Chuck huffed. “I didn’t make it that way, it just happened. There’s something about all of them, Castiel, Annaiel, and Metatron, a few others. They were special and I didn’t know why until they were.”

“Free will.” Pausing Sam thought about it. “The Arch-Angels, they were created with innate free will, that’s why they were asked to bow to humanity right? Cas, Anna, Metatron, they’re the only other Angels I know who’ve developed free will.”

“Angels and Arch-Angels were made to _serve_ Sam,” Shaking his head Chuck huffed. “I cannot begin to explain how deep the need in their very molecules is to _serve a higher power_. It’s why Jack is so dangerous. He’s… He’s not like that. He’s half human. And humans are pesky, indecisive wild little things. I was building a force of thousands of beings almost as powerful as myself. I couldn’t risk competition or defiance. So I built hierarchy into their atoms. That free will you see is just an expression of strength, same as it is in humans. When I left I upset the hierarchy, I left them struggling to obey in a power vacuum. Imagine a creature designed to bow, suddenly being asked to lead.”

“No wonder Cas went mad,”

“Castiel,” The way he said it made Sam smile, like Chuck was remembering a favourite son. “I knew he was special when I made him. He’s one of the youngest you know? He’s millennia younger than the Arch-Angels, one of the youngest of the last true Angels. He wasn’t _meant_ to be special.”

“Oh he’s special alright.” Sharing a smile Sam let the conversation wash over him. For years now he’d been tired, tired in his bones, but for the first time in as long as he could remember, his body was thrumming with excitement. Buzzing with potential. Slightly terrified of the answer he asked the one thing that had been bugging him. “What’s my place in all this?” Chuck smirked, then chuckled, reaching over to clap Sam’s shoulder hard.

“Whatever you make it Sammy,”

\-------------

He doesn’t tell Dean and Castiel about that conversation in the Bunker, can’t bring himself to think about it, about the lies and the false hope, about how Chuck had promised Sam the world, then ripped it out from under him. Betrayed them.

He doesn’t tell them that he thinks, still thinks, this is somehow Chucks way of helping, because he _tried to kill them._ He did kill Jack. So he buries it, down with his guilt over drinking demon blood, and lying, and wishing he’d never come back from his life with his dog and his picket fence.

Somehow, that conversation with Chuck all those weeks ago feels like something private – something meant for him, and only him. It doesn’t matter now. There’s obviously been a change of plans.

He doesn’t even tell them later, after Jack rips back into the night, shedding golden light like a small sun and smiting a half mile radius of the dead into atoms and dust. Because Billy is watching them with a half amused stare, like she _knows_ and Sam isn’t sure if this is the end or the beginning anymore.

So he puts the pistol in the trunk with everything else, and he helps Dean put Castiel in the passenger seat when the Seraphs strength fails him. There’s blood leaking from his nose where Chuck knocked him out of his boots and launched him half way across the field and Sam’s half convince he’s only alive because in some ways he’s Chucks _baby_. Dean is clutching Jack like he’d pulled the trigger and missed. Like all is forgiven, and Sam ears are just static, roaring blood and _whywhywhy_.

He doesn’t even tell them when Billy wanders back to the car, she looks like something out of Sams fantasies, long leather coat swirling around her, and a cautionary hand on her scythe as she explains.

“…The Empty.” Sam hears, Billys voice low and cordial where she’s standing patiently next to the Impala. Cas is slumped in the passenger seat like a puppet with its strings cut, desolation in every line of his form and utter misery leaching from his every pore.

“You didn’t think to ask.” She snaps back, where Dean is hounding her.

“His _soul_ Billy!” Dean snarls. Fists clenched tight to his sides. “He lost his fucking _soul_.”

“You didn’t call.”

“You All Powerful Assholes ever think that maybe we shouldn’t _have_ to?! Maybe! Some things just shouldn’t happen!”

“That’s not how it works.” And she shrugs. Like it’s just that simple. Sam’s terrified it might be.

“It is Billy! It _is_ that fucking simple!”

“I’m not God Dean.”

“No!” Dean snorts. “Haven’t you heard? God’s a fucking psycho. God’s bored now, his toys have misbehaved so he’s throwing them away. That includes you.”

“God is…” Billy pauses. Thinks. Glances at Sam and reconsiders. “God’s complicated.”

“He’s a fucking traitor!” Deans spits. “After _everything_!”

“What?” She snaps. “You think you deserve more?”

“I think we’re fucking _earned_ it!”

“That’s –“

“Not how it works. Yeah. You said.”

Sighing, Sam leans his hip against the Impala and hesitantly enters the conversation.

“Why did you bring him back Billy?”

“Because I could.” She shrugs. Like it was nothing. Like she pulled dead Nephilim from The Empty every day of the week. “Because there’s a war coming. And you’re going to need an army.”

“You couldn’t have brought his soul back before-“

“Don’t.” Sharp and hard she glares at Dean. “Don’t put that on him. He’s just a kid.”

“Just a k – he _killed_ –“

“The only mother he ever knew.”

“Billy…”

“No Sam, I get it, I really do, I was human before I was a Reaper, I’ve watched that boy since the moment he sparked to life in his mothers belly. Mary Winchester might not have birthed him, but even at the end of everything she _raised_ him. She taught him everything he knows, how to fight, how to protect, how to be _good_. In all the ways that count she’s been more a mother to him than she ever was to you.”

It hurts, like a knife in the ribs, it fucking burns, but Billy’s not wrong. Jack had spent more time with her than anyone, and Sam wasn’t blind, the kid had loved her like a mother.

“And then he killed her.”

“And _then_ he burned out his soul to protect you. To protect all of you.” She corrects. “You can’t begin to imagine what that’s like Dean, don’t try.” But Sam knows. Sam remembers. He remembers watching his brother be turned into a vampire. Remembers watching people he cared about hurt. Remembers blood on his hands and lies on his tongue and _not caring_. Not having a soul doesn’t make you_ evil_ it just makes you cold.

“She’s right Dean.”

“Sam! You can’t seriously be –“

“Jack didn’t do anything we didn’t teach him. Even without a _soul_ he tried to do exactly what we would do. You saw what I was like. Do you think I wouldn’t have done the same backed into a corner and in pain?”

“He killed Mom!”

“Yes. He did. He freaked out and he sent Mom to Heaven with a _thought_ Dean! Just a passing thought. He couldn’t possibly have known what he was doing.”

“You don’t know –“

“Then why didn’t you pull the trigger?”

“Sammy –“

“If you thought that, if you _really_ still believed that – why didn’t you pull the trigger?”

Deans sullen silence is enough. It’s cold, and the rain is startling to pitter down on the Impala hood. Jacks sitting in the back where Dean put him, glowing slightly round the edges and feeding Grace over the seat into Castiel who’s watching them through half lidded and exhausted eyes.

“I have betrayed you more times than I can count. I’ve tried to kill you, and I’ve killed plenty of other people. I’ve done more in my life than any one person ever deserves to be forgiven for Dean. And you always do.”

“It’s not the same –“

“Why?”

“Because it’s Mom Sammy!”

“Yeah. I know.” Soft, and careful, he reaches out the last few inches to drop his hand on Deans shoulder. “Now just for a second, try to imagine how you’d feel if _you’d_ done it. Because I know what that’s like. I killed her too.”

“Sam!”

“No!” Looming up he glowers at his obstinate brother. “You don’t get to pick and choose. Jack had no soul and we sent him up against _Lucifer_. We set him up to fall, and now what? You’re punishing him for it? I miss her too. I’m fucking –“ choking he pauses, swallowing down the sob begging to rip itself free of his throat. “I’m the reason Jess is dead. I was the reason Mom died. You’re the reason Dads dead. We’re both why Crowley, Gabriel, Ellen, Jo, Meg, Bobby, Charlie, _hundreds of others._ Are dead. Nobody’s getting a free pass here. But he didn’t _do_ it Dean. Not really.”

“I can’t just –“

“Yes, you can.”

Snorting a lungful of air through his nose Dean spins away, striding a few squelching steps from the Impala before whirling back to glare at Billy.

“He’s back? All the way?”

“All the way.” She nods.

“Full soul?”

“Full soul.”

“So what? I just – forgive him?”

“It wasn’t him Dean. Just like it wasn’t you when you had the Mark and you tried to put me down.”

“That’s not – yeah. Shit. Fuck.” Spinning away again Dean kicks out bitterly and nails the end post of the cemetery wall. “FUCK!”

Weirdly, Sam’s glad to see it, because Dean’s been stone cold through all of this, an executioner on a mission, and this flare of rage is him moving past that.

“So what?” He repeats. Quieter, and subdued, dark hair plastered to his forehead in dirty streaks. “We just forgive and forget?”

“Dean Winchester.” Billy snorts, reaching over and tugging on his ear. “You’ve already forgiven him.”

\-------------------

Watching Dean fuss over Jack is satisfying in a way Sam’s not quite sure he understands. They’re arguing quietly over why Jack can’t take things out of the oven with his bare hands – it doesn’t matter that it doesn’t hurt, it still makes Dean flip out with panic every single time.

Ridiculously, they are making shortbread. There’s apple and raspberry jam bubbling on the stove because that’s what the packet Jammy Dodgers have in them, and Sam’s sticking his fingers in the icing sugar bag when Dean’s not looking. It’s so out of the ordinary that it’s fallen right over into ‘what normal people do with their kids’ – because Jack may be the son of Lucifer and Kelly Kline, but Cas and Dean are his dad’s. Sam thinks he’s been relegated to favourite uncle since it all went to shit; but he’s ok with that, he’s never known what to do with kids anyway.

The thing is, Sam _forgets_, in the hail of bullets, and salt and blood, he forgets that Dean isn’t just his brother, he’s also the one who _raised_ him. It’s Dean who changed his nappies, and fed him, and rattled him when he caught him putting a knife in the toaster. He’s the one who hustled pool to buy books for high school and drove him to school every day. He’s the one who fed him, and washed his skinned knees, did the laundry and made sure he showered semi-regularly. John Winchester might have been his father, but Dean’s as close to a _dad_ as he’ll ever have. Sam chose him a long time ago, and every day he watches Jack choose too. Dean might not see it but everyone else does; Dean is Jack’s _dad_. And if he ever gets his balls out from where they’re hiding maybe one day he’ll be Cas’s - something.

Dean is the one who forgave Sam for letting the _devil_ out – the one who forgave him for letting the devil _in_. For killing, and drinking, half of Hell. For betraying him, day after day, year after year. He’s the one who forgave Cas the end of the world. Multiple times. He’s the man who went to Hell in person, rocked right up to the front door and kicked it in so he could shit in the living room. He’s the man who befriended not only an Angel of the Lord, but also the King of Hell.

Dean is a killer, and a father, a brother, and a _saviour_. He’s the man who pulls the trigger, and the one who knows when not to. And here, watching him putter about the kitchen with Jack like the last six months never happened makes Sam hurt in a way he can’t really describe.

Because Dean’s shoved it under the rug, he’s looking at Jack like he can _see_ the soul that Billy ripped out of the Empty and shoved back into his body with a celestial shoehorn. He’s looking at the flinches, and the terror reeking off the kid, and he’s ignoring it. Like whatever Jack did when he had no soul are as unimportant as everything else that Deans loved ones have done to betray him over the years. Like he’s trying so hard not to put blame on the kid he’s just forgotten how they actually got here.

Sam knows what that’s like. He _knows_ in his bones that he’s the reason Mary Winchester died on the roof in agony leaving behind a broken family who loved her too much. He’s been through too much to not accept that and begin to move beyond it – and as much as a piece of him still _hates_ Jack: feels his hackles rise every time the kid appears on the edges of his vision, he also feels guilty as sin when it happens because he’s _been_ there. He’s walked the soulless path, and Jack had clung to his humanity in a way Sam hadn’t even thought possible.

So here they are, weeks after God opened up a gate to Hell and unleashed the dead, weeks after the world fell out from beneath them, weeks after Jack wrenched back from the ground in a wave of Angel fire and scoured every hellish thing in that rotting place to dust. Weeks after he turned to Dean with fire in his eyes and sunk straight back to his knees and burst into tears. Weeks after Billy saved their asses just _because_.

Cas, as usual, is gone for the day, hiding out in Heaven and trying desperately to throw what Grace he has back into the batteries. He’s running himself ragged dumping his Grace into Heaven and they don’t exactly _like_ him going anywhere with the God Squad, but Cas is determined that Heaven cannot be allowed to Fall, and the God Squad still aren’t sure what Nephilim Grace will do to Heaven now Chucks on the murder path. Chuck hasn’t been back there, hasn’t greeted the new Angels that Cas is desperately trying to teach, hasn’t done anything they can see but throw a major snit and fuck off again – but they’re all waiting patiently for the shit to hit the fan. They beat the Devil, but how the fuck do they fight _God?_

They can all see it, the sky is darker every day, not enough to notice, but enough if you know to look. Cas says the lights are barely on, and the memories are fading. There are only nine _real _Angels left; nine to hold back the entire weight of Heaven. They might not like it, but with the Arch-Angels gone, Cas is the most powerful battery left in the box, and Heaven needs every single spark.

The thing is though – it’s not enough; it’s never going to be enough. Cas has chosen his path and while he’ll lend Heaven his mojo, he’s not interested in having his old room back. Sam’s not stupid, Cas and Dean might not have gotten their heads on straight yet but they look at each other like they’d watch the world burn together – and Sam’s just jaded enough to think that after everything they’ve been through recently, this time they just might. Every choice Cas has made to try and make things better has almost killed him; Dean’s not going to let him play the martyr again. Somehow, no matter how much the world goes to shit it’s always Dean – always Dean pulling them back from the edge, making the hard call, pulling their ass out of the fire. It’s always Dean paying the price. It’s always Dean holding them together with every breath when they choose _wrongwrongwrong_.

The Idea shifts and opens it’s eyes in the back of Sam’s head again as he nibbles burnt biscuit ends.

Watching Dean destroy Lucifer had been ridiculous, Angels fought like soldiers but Dean had fought like something out of one of his old martial arts films. Human understanding merging with Angelic Grace in a mystifying and ridiculous manner that had, impossibly, worked. They’d killed Lucifer. Then Jack had ripped Michael right out of Rowena’s brain, snuffed him out like a candle. Now Jack and Cas were the only known Angelic Grace left on Earth, and there were only eight, pitiful, paper pusher Angels left in Heaven, desperately trying to teach a handful of human Evangilists how to be Servants of Heaven. Burning their Grace to its roots to hold up the sky. In Sam’s head, The Idea shifts, stretches, and grows wings. It’s so completely ridiculous, it could work. Patiently, he mulls it over, and nibbles burnt biscuits dipped in icing sugar until his little family are done making a mess.


	2. Chapter Two

The thing is – humanity thinks he writes the story. Well, the headache pounding behind Chuck’s human eyes and the hungover hooker sprawled across his motel bed says that’s not even vaguely true. If it was he’d have written her cheaper by the hour. Oh he’s meddled with it, and guided it, and stuck his nose where it doesn’t belong over the years, but since Eve fell and got all ugli-fied, he’s taken a decidedly hands off approach and let them all get on with it. They’ve been better without him anyway. The thing about giving humanity free will – he’d really wanted them to use it.

He hadn’t just watched the Winchesters destroy his reputation in Heaven – he’d _helped_. Pushed every Angels with a spark of free will towards them, and every Demon with a spark of humanity.

They’ve been learning for a lifetime, his amazing, glorious boys. And they’re _nearly_ ready. The world, Heaven, Hell and everything in between is _nearly_ ready.

\-----------------------

He should really have known, Sam muses, as the sun rises behind him. He’s been running by the river, the bunker miles in the distance, and somehow, when he woke up this morning he feels like he should have known. Because sitting patiently, on a brand new and sparkling bench by a bend in the river is Chuck. He’s dressed like a rich kid in the scruffiest jeans this side of Alaska, and a red and black chequered jacket that’s two sizes too big. Chuck looks like what he is… an author. He looks like someone rolled him around in hipster glitter and left him out to dry. He’s just the right amount of rumpled and Sam’s half tempted to keep running, not quite sure he’s ready for this yet. Not quite sure he’s brave or stupid enough for this.

But Chuck looks serene where he’s perched on the edges of the brand new bench - he’s tossing bread to the whitest ducks Sam has ever seen; and Sam knows for a fact there’s no ducks in this river. It’s quite likely he’ll still be there tomorrow, and every day after until Sam _is_ ready. It’s equally likely this is a one time deal.

“Hey Sam,” He nods, smiling pleasantly and nodding his head to the bench.

“Hey Chuck,” It’s been years now since they figured out the connection, that Chuck is _God_, and Sam’s pretty sure he’d been over it by the point he reached round and ripped the rug right out from under their feet.

_God,_ he’s learned, is a human creation, Chuck is just the all-powerful wavelength of light who sneezed and started the universe one day when he was bored. He might have been the spark, but he’s not the fuel or the flame. His recent behaviour indicates in fact, that he might just be the bucket of water, that puts it all out.

“How are you?” Oddly, Chuck looks a tad sheepish. And Sam is thrown.

“You know,” he shrugs, pacing a step or two closer. “One of our friends tried to kill us and apparently God is back in town to end the world.”

“Yeah.” Chuck hesitates. “How about we put that on the back burner for a second.” As Sam opens his mouth to explode, he snaps his fingers, watching, with just a hint of regret as calm slips over his friend and his shoulders loosen from their defensive bunch around his ears.

“Just a little something to make this go easier Sam,” He clarifies. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Funny that.”

“I do regret the choices I have to make.”

“You tried to get us to kill Jack, you tried to kill _us_. You did kill Jack!” Oddly, Sam isn’t as angry about all this as he really thinks he should be. He feels warm, and content, and there’s a familiarity about the warmth in Chucks eyes even as Sam feels the acrid taste of bile rise in the back of his throat. “You’re what? Calming potion-ing me right now?”

“Something like that.”

“Stop it. If you’re going to kill me, kill me. If you’re not, let me go.”

Startled Chuck whirls on him, big brown eyes wide with shock.

“I’m not going to _kill_ you Sammy!” He exclaims, bangs flopping down onto his forehead. “I was never trying to kill you. You still don’t understand? We talked about this.”

“Why you popped back up to kill your grandson? Why you opened a _hellgate_ to put us down?”

“It’s complicated.”

“No.” Sam shakes his head. “It isn’t.”

“You’re not going to remember much of this Sammy,” Chuck drones, seemingly back in his own head. “I can’t let you remember, it doesn’t _work_ if you remember. But I can’t just _do_ it, y’know? Can’t put you through everything that’s coming without...”

“What do you mean ‘_everything that’s coming’_?!”

“Welcome to the End Sammy.” He grins, throwing his arms wide as if it’s right there with him.

“You’d really do that? Destroy the world? For what? _Why_?”

“Sammy,” Slowly, like Sam’s not quite all there, Chuck frowns at him. “I’m not going to destroy the world. I’m going to destroy _God_.”

“You _are God_,” and snarling isn’t easy when you feel as serene as Sam does, but he manages it anyway.

“Not really. Not anymore. I’ve decided to step down from my position.”

“You’ve decided to – what the _fuck_ –“

“I thought it would happen years ago. Lucifer and Michael released from the Cage, burning each other up to leave just you and Dean. That’s the first draft. Didn’t work out. I had it all planned out. Honestly, I prefer your version.”

“The first _draft –_“

“Of course then it all went to shit when Amara came back… I thought…” And oddly, Chuck is smiling again, bright and happy. “I thought Amara and I… well, I think you saw what I thought. I was wrong. She’s…” He pauses and gives Sam the widest grin. “She’s balancing.”

“How long have you been gone?” Because putting aside that absolute shit he just spewed and the fact that Sam’s brain feels like it’s doped to the gills - Sam knows Time isn’t linear, it might have been a week since Chuck tried to end them, it might have been a million years. The way he’s talking it hasn’t been the same short weeks they’ve had since he tried to kill them.

“Maybe a few centuries.” He shrugs, like it’s not important. Maybe for God, it isn’t. “I missed you guys. I’m sorry I had to leave. I was… angry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Lost for words Sam lets his mouth fall open. Chuck had raised the dead. Hundreds of the dead. Chuck had tried to _kill_ them! Chuck _had_ killed Jack.

“You had to forgive him.” Chuck frowns, opens his mouth, closes it, and frowns some more. “Jack – I couldn’t bring his soul back, I’m not as strong as you think I am anymore, not compared to _him_. Not like that. You have to understand Sam. He killed your mother – Dean was going to put him down. You’d never have forgiven him – never moved forward.”

“So what?” Sam snarls, bitterness and hate fighting the calming drug Chucks pumping into his head. “It had to play out like it did? He had to die, so we could _move past it?_” Miraculously, Chuck brightens, snaps his fingers and nods, like finally one of his sea monkeys _gets_ it.

“I knew you’d get it. They never understand,” Chuck shrugs.

“Who?”

“The hero’s.” Handing bread to Sam Chuck refocuses on the ducks. “You and me Sam, we’re just plot, it’s always been about him; I started listening again when I left, wanted to keep an eye on you. Wanted to see if you’d figure it out, but then Castiel left your soul behind. Idiot. It got weird for a while, didn’t it? But I think you understand now.”

“So what? You want me to forget you tried to kill us, sit here like best bro’s and feed magic ducks?” Sam snorts, raising his eyebrows.

“Humour me, pretend you’re calm, and I’m a friend.”

“You were our friend.”

“I’m still your friend Sammy – just not right now.”

“Friends don’t make other friends shoot their son – friends don’t try to kill their other friends – friends don’t treat people like toys to throw away when they don’t behave.”

“That’s exactly what friends do. I’ve watched every friend you’ve ever had. That’s basically a dictionary definition of How to Befriend a Winchester.”

“Our _friends_ made sacrifices for us! Bled for us! Died for us!”

“You destroyed my home, you killed my children. Almost all of them in fact.” It isn’t an accusation, but Sam flinches all the same.

“I don’t understand.” And Sam _hates _how petulant he sounds, even to his own ears. Like Chuck had meant something to him and had let him down.

“Yeah you do. I’m the _author _Sam.”

“You keep saying that, but,” Sam ponders, dutifully picking off crumbs and flicking them at the dazzling white ducks. “The stories you wrote. They weren’t yours, they were ours.”

“Clever boy, keep going.” The bread never gets smaller.

“So what? You had this grand plot and we’re just supposed to be the good little toy soldiers reading our lines?”

“Don’t be obtuse.”

“Your existence makes every choice we ever made – _worthless. _Everyone who ever died, died because of you. Why? Because you needed us to understand what it feels like to be alone?” Sam muses, laying it all out, everything that’s been spinning in his head for months now.

“You were never alone Sam.”

“But I will be.” He pleads. “If this is the End Chuck –“

“The End is just another word for the beginning Sam.”

“If you’re just here to mind control me and talk shit –“

“I’m trying to let you in on the secret! You’ve been picking apart movies plots and predicting the end of Game of Thrones for years now, and you never thought to try predicting yours? He’s ticked all the boxes though hasn’t he? Found the worth in _why _things need to happen sometimes. The great hero, ready to face the final challenge.”

“Dean.” Chuck agrees, nodding. “So what? You’re setting him up to die for you?”

“For the love of Me Sammy, you might be bright but you’re not half stupid sometimes.” Chuck grins. And it’s sharp and predatory, and all the things that Chuck shouldn’t be. “I’m setting him up to _kill me!_


	3. Chapter Three

Sam doesn’t tell Dean about meeting Chuck. In a distant sense, like trying to remember an old dream it slips away every time he tries to think too hard on it. Jack and Cas both give him funny looks when he gets back, like he’s radiating the lie but they don’t push it when he tells them he’s fine while trying desperately to remember why the calm feels so wrong. It comes back to him in the quiet moments, when he’s puzzling how to ward against the fucking creator, or watching Dean overcompensate and throw his time into training Jack in everything he knows. He remembers speaking to Chuck, but in a faraway sense that only comes together when he’s alone. The lingering feeling that Chuck thinks he’s doing the right thing won’t leave him. It doesn’t mean Chuck _is _doing the right thing, but Sam’s convinced he thinks he is. The world feels like it’s building to something it can’t quite reach. There are riots and murders springing up left right and center, the gloom is eating into people’s souls and Heaven is deteriorating rapidly. Cas isn’t the only one worried that souls are slipping free of Heavens grasp.

Chuck wants Dean to take over, the dream in Sam’s head has figured that bit out at least, but he didn’t say how or when. It’s mental, and while part of him feels like it’s the last piece of the puzzle the rest is just screaming endlessly that this is _atrickatrickatrick. _He’s got the feeling that whatever is going to happen isn’t going to be soon but time is different for Chuck and Sam’s still not quite sure what’s really going to happen. If they’ll just wake up one day and Dean’s able to reform the universe – what the fuck are they going to do if they just wake up one day and Dean can reform the universe?! Chuck is a writer though, and Sam keeps having to remind himself that to Chuck - this is a _story. _Chuck likes fireworks, and intrigue; he’s based his life around living other peoples adventures and he started the Apocalypse once because he thought it’d make a nice finale. He’s going to want pain, and fear, and a long fucking run up; Sam’s convinced of that, but it’s not like they have much left to work with at this point. Fight God? Them and what army?

As it turns out, Sam’s morning chat had obviously thrown some shit that stuck though. So when a week of obsessive baking later the first sign literally falls in the Bunker door, trips down the stairs and lands sprawled out in the main foyer Sam’s just as shocked, and just as ecstatic as everyone else. But he’s not _surprised._

Gabriel is in pieces, he’s bruised and battered and bloody, there’s a knife wound deep in his side and he’s leaking Grace all over the place like a burst hose. He’s also, inexplicably, demure. He’s watching Jack with speculation, and he’s ridiculously pleased to see Cas again but he’s shying from Sam, Dean and Jack like they’ve got the plague. It’s the days following his rescue from Hell all over again. He doesn’t know how he survived, only that he remembers Michael butchering him, remembers his Grace burning out of him in a supernova, remembers waking up hours, days, weeks – who knows – later, Graceless and bleeding like a stuck pig.

He remembers stumbling through the Apocalypse alone, hoping to die, and then he remembers a fraction of a second when the worlds had collided again. His Grace was gone, but Gabriel is old magic too, and Pagan belief sweeping in from his own world had been just enough juice to get him home. When he pulls together enough wind to ask if anyone missed him and quirks a defiant eyebrow at Sam, Sam lifts one single shoulder in a shrug and smiles while he rushes to get the first aid kit. It’s not until he’s out of the room and down the stairs that he thinks _army_ and grins to himself.

“Gabriel,” Cas, ever patient and eternally exasperated Cas, is the one to finally pin the panting Gabriel into a chair, wrenching him down into it by his coat neck and glaring with such Castiel determination that even his big brother wilts and settles grudgingly. There’s blue light weeping out of him and he’s sheet white. “The wound, why hasn’t it healed?” Shrugging inelegantly, Gabriel snorts.

“Because the world hates me?” It’s not like him, there’s shadows hanging over him again, in a way that makes Sam think it’s all catching up. Gabriel has spent millennia being the one on top, and the last ten years have beaten him bloody and drained him dry. But, Sam laughs a little hysterically to himself, that’s how stories go isn’t it? Sure, Chuck could probably snap his fingers and give Dean a golden crown, and magic hands, but what would he do with what he hadn’t earned? Gabriel’s suffering, his loyalty, his death, it’s all been bought in blood. Twice over. You can’t fake that, and you can’t buy it. Chuck want’s them to put Gabriel back together again, he wants Gabriel to _stay_. Sliding into the chair next to the flinching Arch-Angel Sam hesitates. All this, all this pain, and suffering, and manipulation. He’s made a lot of mistakes, but he thinks this might be the last one. They will never forgive him this. Watching Gabriel flinch away as he reaches out with a warm wet cloth to clean the wound, Sam’s not entirely sure he’s going to forgive himself but deep in his head something settles and a choice is made.

\------------

“I swear to Dad little brother if you stick your sweaty fingers in my face _one more time…!_” Gabriel might be broken, but he’s not cowed. Cas has been reading and attempting to heal him intermittently all afternoon, on and off the phone to Charlie more times than Sam wants to count seeing as Charlie is currently in Scotland with Rowena and the international charges are going to be fucking nuts. Gabriel’s still lying on the library couch like a half-filled sausage stuffing left out in the sun. The wound in his side is still bleeding both thick clotted blood and ice cold Grace, and his Arch-Angel Blade is still in his hand. He’s not here because he trusts them, he’s here because months rocking around the globe with a wound that won’t heal and a complete lack of anything even vaguely resembling his usual level of Grace has finally spat him out on their front lawn with nowhere else to go.

“Something’s wrong,” Castiel growls, deep gravelly annoyance seeping into his tone as he paces away to grab another dusty tome off the library desk. The Bunker is still startlingly empty after Michael’s massacre, and none of them are quite used to the silence anymore considering the hub it had become, but Sam’s not stupid either, he’s been assessing new hunters for months and they are unlikely to be left entirely alone for long. Gabriel wouldn’t have come back if they were still full up with strangers and chasing Michael.

He knows in his bones that this is going to get worse before it gets better, that Chuck isn’t playing the saint, and he’s not going to let this happen the easy way. He’s stepped up his game following the chat with Chuck by the river all those weeks ago, and while he could use a decent sleep, he’s also a bit more safe in the knowledge they are slowly recruiting again. “Nick’s wound healed just fine after Lucifer was killed. Yours should have healed by now.”

“Why are you, _you_ anyway?” Dean’s voice, harsher and louder, has Gabriel flinching like a fly bitten horse, his eyes swinging open and deep hazel latching onto the potential threat.

“Who else would I be?” He huffs eventually, like dealing with stupid is so beyond him right now.

“When Lucifer died, his Vessel – Nick - recovered and healed.”

“Then he went apeshit,” Dean slots in, frowning when Castiel glares at him in that pinched way.

“Nonetheless, the Vessel healed of its own accord following Lucifer’s death. His mind, and sense of self, if not his sanity, recovered. Gabriel, your mind should have died with your Grace. We should be speaking with your Vessel.”

“Oh, that,” he snorts, smirking. “Well this isn’t a Vessel.”

“Well it’s not a fucking hand puppet!”

“Dean!”

“Don’t ‘Dean!’ me Cas, fuck knows who’s in that gourd rattling around, we don’t even know this is Gabriel!”

“I died for you,” it’s soft, and just a touch cold, and Gabriel is staring at Dean like he’s looking out through his soul. “In Elysian Fields you asked me to die for you, and I made it out by the dust on my wings. Then, you drag me out of _Hell_, not a scrap of Grace to my bloODY NAME! Just to drag me to some new Hell, where I DIED FOR YOU!” He’s panting and clutching his ribs by the time the fit of rage passes.

“Gabe,’”

“Don’t you ‘Gabe’ me Winchester, this body is my own, I built it, just for me, witness protection remember. It’s not a Vessel. It’s me. Even without the mojo.”

“It never had its own soul,” Immediately Sam is leaning forward, studying Gabriel from head to toe, like he thinks he can see anything different now he’s looking. There’s no ‘Handmade by the Arch-Angel Gabriel’ stamped across the chassis, but he’s curious all the same.

“No more than my own,” Gabriel shrugs. “Half Pagan, remember.”

“There’s no such thing,” Cas, isn’t as easily convinced, but Sam’s kind of seen this before.

“People on the internet created a ghost that couldn’t be killed Cas, we’re already running on the thinking that Pagan beliefs from here are what held Gabriel together after his Grace was gone? I bet there’s more than a few people out there that believe Loki has a soul.”

“At least one of you has two brain cells to rub together,”

“_Gabrieeel,_”

“_Castieeeeeeeeeel,_” And Cas might technically be the little brother, but Gabriel is infinity more experienced with being annoying. “I think Samsquatch is right. Pagan beliefs meets Trickster luck, and boom. Just enough to get me home hail.”

“Hail.” The flat disbelief in Cas’ voice is stinging. “I hardly think your current condition is best described as _hail_. And if Pagan belief is what got you here why are you bleeding Grace?”

“It’s not mine,” Shrugging he rolls his eyes. “You think you’ve got the monopoly on borrowed Grace little brother? There’s bits of it lying all over the place if you know where to look.”

“You _murdered_…!”

“Hey hey hey!” Struggling to sit up he pastes on a frown. “Listen here, I’ve done some stupid shit in my time but trust me when I say _you _discovered that nasty fucking habit Castiel, and then you taught Lucifer!”

“I was…!”

“Yeah I know what you were,” And the darkness and disappointment in his tone rips right through to the bone; for a second Sam feels a deep pang of anger at the blatant hurt on Castiel’s weathered face; he’s paid for his crimes, maybe more than any of them. “This Grace isn’t stolen, it’s bought and paid for fair and square. Shaman have been collecting Grace for thousands of years. You just need to know where to look.”

“So it’s Grace one of the Arch-Angels left behind years ago?” Sam’s brain is whirling, this is starting to make sense, like puzzle pieces falling into place.

“No dice, the last Arch-Angel Grace in the America’s got lifted by assbutt over there and shoved into his little baby bird.” Gabriel’s frowning again now, watching Jack like he’s going to spontaneously combust. “I can still feel it, _my_ Grace. In a Nephilim. In my _nephew_. I’m not sure if that’s incest or not.”

“You can have it back!” Jack doesn’t look particularly fussed by the incest jab, but he’s positively boiling over with the need to help, it’s not until he reaches out, golden eyes burning and Grace leaping between his fingers that Gabriel reacts though – and shit does he react.

Jack-knifing off the lounge he springs over the back, Blade drawn and scattering throw pillows and blood in his wake. His landing is perfect, right up until the point his left leg buckles beneath him and pitches him onto the tiles on his knees, crimson blood leaching through his fingers where he’s holding his guts in. The lance of blue in his eyes is small, and it’s hidden beneath layers and layers of fear, as he scrambles back across the tiles, lingering bloody handprints marking his path.

“Get away from me!”

“I’m… I’m sorry!” The picture of dejection Jack slumps, curling his fingers in towards himself and backing away. In the blink of an eye he’s gone and deep in the bunker a door slams.

“Shit, fuck, cunt, daisy fucker!” Gabriel whines, slumping back onto the floor. “Dad damnit!” Slamming his hand down he lets his Blade skitter away across the floor.

“What the fuck was that!?”

“Calm down Daddy Dean, I’ve been in Hell for a decade, my reflexes are a bit skittish.”

“He’s just a kid!”

“He’s _burning_ with my Grace! Fuck this hurts. Fucking, bastarding, bloody mother of _fuck_!” Lying down on the cool tiles he pants. “He’s the biggest nuke on the planet right now. Excuse me for being a tad dippy about my own Grace times a million coming at me. The last time my Grace came at me it was in…” He doesn’t finish, but there’s no doubting who he meant.

“Asmodeus, you thought he was Asmodeus.”

“Ain’t PTSD a bitch Deano. I’m just going lie here and bleed. Don’t mind me.”

“I won’t.” And snorting in disgust Dean heads out, tracking Jack back into the bunker; Sam only hopes he bothers to explain. Jack is powerful but his heart is soft as butter, especially since Billy brought him back. There had been no mistaking the hurt in his eyes at his uncles reaction.

“Gabriel, you must understand, though powerful, Jack would never hurt you, he admires you greatly and mourned your death following our return to this world.”

“I know little brother, I know.”

\----------------------------------

It’s nearly three days before Jack surfaces from his bedroom, three days during which Gabriel hides, and spits venom, bleeds all over the furniture and hides some more. He’s built himself a warded den in one of the abandoned bedrooms that even Cas can’t wing into and Sam has been delivering food and bandages to the door three times a day in the hopes that eventually, he’ll eat something. On the morning of the fourth day Dean is making pancakes, and they’re fighting over the maple syrup when he slouches round the door looking sheepish and _grey_. He’s wrapped the wound in a great swathe of bandages but it’s bleeding through regardless and in Sam’s personal opinion - he looks like shit.

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks Daddy Dean-o.”

“I call it like I see it fuckface.”

“Hey!” Surprisingly, it’s Jack who interrupts them, and miraculously Gabriel doesn’t flinch. “Uncle Gabriel – can I call you Uncle Gabriel? – I’m sorry for startling you. It wasn’t my intention.”

“No worries kiddo, it wasn’t you,”

“Dad explained,” Pausing, Jack twists his hands nervously and glances between his dads; it’s Cas who frowns a little and nods encouragingly. “You were hurt, a demon used your Grace against you. I…_triggered_… this memory?” He’s repeating the words like a puppet, but he’s trying so hard to understand that Gabriel can’t hold it against him. Steeling himself he lifts one arms up and gestures the kid over.

“Come help your Uncle Gabe before he falls down kiddo,” deep breaths, deep breaths. “Just keep that Grace locked down for a bit yeah? Give an old Arch-Angel some warning before you reach with it.”

“I will, I’m sorry I scared you. My power is dangerous.” It’s not just Sam who flinches.

“Startled.” Gabriel frowns, as Jack fusses around him, digging a plate and cutlery out of the newly installed and obviously completely out of place dishwasher. “Startled is the word we’re all looking for. Thanks kid. Yeah apple juice, please. You’re an Arch-Angel Nephilim – you’re supposed to be dangerous,”

“The Grace you… bought,” Before that can go any further, ever the peace keeper, Castiel interrupts. “It’s fading. Fighting to close the wound.”

“It’s not working. Should have healed me right up but it’s burning away.”

“I thought Angels used their Grace to heal themselves?”

“We do Sam, but Gabriel is an Arch-Angel, the power differential is incalculable. The entirety of my Grace when I was strongest is still but a drop in the ocean next to what Gabriel had.”

“_Had_. Thanks for the reminder little brother. Not like that still stings or anything. But he’s right Sammy, I could have burnt him to a crisp with a sneeze, even after Dad brought him back all ‘roided up the first time. Arch-Angels are different.”

“Bigger reservoir,” Startled Sam snaps his mouth shut as the group turns to frown at him. In the back of his head, something perks up, startled and pleased.

“That’s an interesting word to use,” It’s Gabriel who’s watching him though, like the word means something, like he’s heard it before. “But close enough. You could drop Cas into my _reservoir_ never to be seen again. But I don’t think that’s the problem. This little flea bite shouldn’t take more than a sniff to heal. It’s Grace resistant.”

“Grace resistant?”

“Arch-Angel Blades were designed to kill the things that couldn’t be killed. Leviathan, Knights of Hell, Horsemen. We were the last defence, what Seraph and Angels couldn’t kill, Arch-Angels walked all over. Only problem there is… Dad couldn’t put limiters on us. What if something mimicked our powers? We’ve seen it before. Stolen Grace, possession, brain washing. An Arch-Angel Blade will kill anything. Including an Arch-Angel. You can’t heal it. I’m dying. Slowly.” Helping himself to pancakes Gabriel shrugged and guzzled his apple juice before dumping an obscene amount of maple syrup over the pancake tower of Babylon he’d built. “The Pagan magic might have helped me survive this far but it’s not strong enough to hold off Arch-Angel magic. The Grace is just buying me time.”

“There must be something we can do! Nick healed just fine!”

“Nick went cuckoo bananas!”

“Yes Dean, I remember! But his _wound_ healed just fine!”

“Nick was human.”

“And he isn’t?”

Pausing as he stuffed himself Gabriel frowned.

“Dude, don’t insult me.”

“You said it yourself, you made that form, when you made it did you make it human?”

“Fine, yes, Mr Frowny Face. Technically it’s Loki’s face, Loki _was_ at one point human, before he got all Pagan’d up. On a cellular level this body is human, Angel’s can’t possess monsters for long, not even Super Angels. The body had to be human. But _I’m_ not!”

“I could not heal Nicks wound.” Cas mused, deep lines forming around his eyes as he watched his brothers douse the last of the pancake sludge in more syrup.

“Grace resistant!”

“Dad says using cutlery to point is rude,”

“Sam taught me that,”

“By Dad! You lot are the worst!” Throwing down the fork he’d been wielding at Castiel, Gabriel clutched his hand to his side and blew through his nose like a horse. “Can’t a Pagan god eat his pancakes and bleed to death in peace!”

\---------------------------------------

It’s the middle of the afternoon by the time it hits Dean like a freight train. He’s been sparring with Jack in the garage for nearly an hour, and the kids still useless but he’s getting there.

“I know you’re superman Jack, but you’ve got to deflect, one of these days it might not be a puny human.”

Jack, predictably, frowns.

“There are very few creatures left with the power to harm me, Dad was very sure that with my Grace and soul restored I would be…”

“I’m not saying Cas is wrong, but you can’t walk around thinking you’re immune to everything. There’s a distinct chance an Arch-Angel Blade could kill you and we’re not even going to talk about witches man. I can’t -”

“While it’s true…”

“_Jack_,”

“Hands up, I remember,”

“Now I’m going to go for your kidneys, don’t break my arm,”

“Ow! You said you were aiming for my kidneys!”

“That didn’t hurt! Constant vigilance, the enemy isn’t going to tell you where they’re gonna punch you.”

“Dad says humans say ‘Ow’ when they are lying about being hurt.” Snorting, Dean lowers his fight stance and drags his hand across his forehead.

“Your Dad thinks he’s clever,”

“Dad _is_…”

“Yeah kiddo, I know,”

The thing is, Jack’s a bit like the Hulk, he’s got the muscle to take down just about anything but he’s more literal than Cas was day one on Earth. Having his soul back has helped inject a little of the warm humour he’d been gathering before, but everything that’s happened has knocked him right back to startled and unsure factory settings. Dean’s not sure how to deal with that, still isn’t sure how he’s dealing with anything beyond the bottle of Jack in his desk.

“I wish I could help,”

“I know you do kid.”

“Why won’t uncle Gabriel take his Grace back?”

“The Arch-Angel Blades were designed to destroy _anything, _including Grace, it’d burn through yours just the same as what he’s got at the moment.”

“That’s why Nick got better? Because all of my fathers Grace was gone?”

Pausing in his brief towel down, Dean raises his eyebrows. “Kid, you’re a genius!”

“Dad does say I’m…”

“Not now kid! C’mon!”

\----------------

“You want to _what_?” Gabriel might have the most expressive face Sam has ever seen, but even he’s shocked by just how far his dark eyebrows climb up his forehead when Dean spills his theory out onto the war table. “I know you don’t exactly _like_ me Deano but I thought after death number two I was growing on you at least a little.”

“Wait, Gabriel, Dean might be onto something here.” Rapidly, Sam runs through the past few months in his head looking for reasons this might not work. “Nick healed up just fine, but he didn’t have a lick of Grace left in him. He’s was 100% human.”

“You want to make me _human_?” Gabriel’s disgust is evident, as he sneers around the table at them. “I was human for weeks after I got stabbed. I’ve been human for months in between slipping back through the cracks and back here.”

“Not if you’ve been soaking up Pagan magic like a bad-tempered sponge.”

“Dean’s got a point, you might have been without your Grace at times, but you’ve admitted there’s always been a bit of belief magic, you’ve got to have been pulling on that to keep you going. You’d be dead by now if you hadn’t.”

“I’ll be dead if I _don’t_!”

“Gabriel.” Cas, as always, quiet, patient and intense, cuts through the bickering right to the heart of it. “You said it yourself, the Arch-Angel Blades were designed to destroy _anything _supernatural. That includes Pagan magic. The magic likely won’t stop until its focus is dead. Or no longer supernatural.”

“So what, I just shut the doors and hope for the best?”

“We don’t have any other options. You’re not healing, you’re losing Grace at, frankly, an alarming rate. If we do not seal that wound, you _will_ die. You can’t deny you’ve been putting every bit of power you have into regenerating the blood you’re losing. It’s not enough.”

Scowling Gabriel glares around the table. The Pagan magic is all that’s really been keeping him going, and he’s been sharing that with the real Loki for as long as he remembers. It’s been enough to hold this frozen bloody existence but it’s not enough to move past it.

“What about your witch? She’s got to have something up her sleeve.”

“The Arch-Angel Blades were created to destroy…”

“Everything supernatural, I get it! Excuse me for not wanting to sign my own death warrant quite so quickly a third time. Not everyone gets an upgrade every time they shed this mortal coil brother!”

“I have been human Gabriel, it is difficult and confusing, frightening, but not unmanageable. I promise, you will be protected until you heal. I will protect you. You have my word, you will not be alone in this.” Dean’s face pales just a little, and Gabriel watches curiously through his fringe as the hunter gets up and pours two fingers of scotch. He’s radiating guilt, but Gabriel’s not really feeling up to chasing down that particular titbit.

“Look at you fledgling,” he teases instead, watching in satisfaction as Castiel turns a vivid pink at the childish nickname. “Looking out for your big brother.”

“I have precious few of those left.”

“Well, you’re not wrong.”

The thing is, Gabriel’s not scared of being human, he’s been human before to a certain extent, in the early days of this form. Oh he’d always had the Arch-Angel oomph locked away but for all intents and purposes he’d spent more years human than he cares to admit. He’s had jobs, and investments, and even love affairs. He’s gone native. But he’d always had _magic_. Stripped entirely of his powers he’s not only defenceless – this body may be trained to fight but humans are _puny_; he’s also exposed. The glamour’s covering every inch of him are leaking signs of stress already. He knows he’s grey and blue, that his hair is lank and his cheeks are hollowed – but he’s not _broken_. He’s not projecting the myriad tattered scars around his lips from Amadeus’ sewing them shut, or the lattice of lash marks littering his back, the studiously detailed lace of healed knife wounds on his thighs. The nip out of the tip of his ear is invisible, and the pearled white burns on the palms of his hands and feet – long since scarred over – are thankfully hidden and smooth. Gabriel’s strength may be down to fumes, but his Vessel – his body – is truly in pieces. He’s littered with the remnants of centuries of torture in Hell; wounds which have never healed from his time in the cells hidden beneath heavy glamours. He might be dying, but he’s not ready to let them see him like that. Beneath the magic his shattered left knee is barely strong enough to hold him, they’ll want to treat that, which means they’ll see the tiger stripes of knife scars littering the insides of his thighs all the way to his… The hole punched in his gut is relatively safe to show off but there’s a pair of wicked curving scars where his wings go that he can’t even bear to think about. If his Grace was at fully fettle he could snap them away with a wish, but it’s been years since he had that kind of power, and despite all the merry Winchesters in the world he’s pretty sure at this point that he’s never going to see it again. He doesn’t want to die _broken_. Magic is holding him together by the seams, PTSD and torture buried beneath the icy buffer of Grace; a thin and fading wall between his sanity and the tidal wave of shit he hasn’t even begun to deal with yet. Losing that, such as it is, petrifies him.

“Gabriel,” Glancing up he catches Castiels gaze, sure and strong and determined in a way that Gabriel remembers from his first days in Heaven. Poor little bird, he’s been rewired and rewritten so many times Gabriel’s not sure his little brother even really remembers him. His wings, what little Gabriel can still see of them beyond this plane, are scorched with old burns, and burning with patchy Grace like someone has ripped his feathers out over and over. His poor baby-brother, sliced and diced and pieced back together doesn’t even cut it. But his gaze is fierce, and there’s a bright orange glow building beneath his tattered flight feathers that screams determination and faith. Despite all the millennia, and the lingering concern that Castiel barely knows him, doesn’t _remember_, it’s still The Little Angel Who Could looking back at him with all that earnest belief. Some things, Heaven can’t change, despite how many times they try – it’s reassuring to him that Castiel will always be the rebel child with a heart too big for his head.

“You really do make the puppy eyes a crime Cassy,” he hums; subtly he lets just a fraction of his wings out into a place where Castiels Angel eyes can see them, see the damage, see how broken he truly is. “This isn’t going to be pretty.” ‘_I’m not the big brother you remember.’_

“Gabriel,” a flush of lavender pride, and wave of grey sorrow, deep golden love. _‘I stand by you, even as you Fall.’_

“Well,” deep silver fear and a whisper of gold. _‘I’m trusting you Castiel, the last trust I might ever give.’_

“_We will fix this brother._” Pure flushed pink and gold, faith.


	4. Chapter 4

The process is simple enough, they haven’t got the luxury of wasting the Grace so Gabriel’s Arch-Angel Blade is procured from the library and Cas pulls a glass vial from the labs. If this doesn’t work they might not even get the chance to stuff it back in, but they certainly can’t afford to waste it.

It’s going to hurt, he’s been hiding the pain beneath Grace for months now but he vividly remembers the burning agony of the wound when he’d woken from his stupor the first time. Fucking Michael. Gabriel wasn’t a soldier - he wasn’t even a brawler like Lucifer. Oh he was scrappy and he’d had oomph both as an Arch-Angel and as Loki, but he’s not ashamed to admit that what Michael and Lucifer had in wheelbarrows, Gabriel’s fine made form maybe only had in buckets. He was fast, and he was clever, but he wasn’t truly designed for war like they were. He hadn’t been built to fight like Michael, or born to lead like Lucifer, or with patience like Raphael, he’d been built to sneak, and snoop, slip through the cracks - he’d been built to fly.

So when Dean Winchester rocks up with Gabriels own Blade in his meaty fist his first and instinctive reaction is to reach for his wings and flee. Which would be all well and good if he still had the mojo to use them. In reality he flinches; shuddering for a second like he’s caught in a high wind, before he slumps and sighs.

“Cas,”

“I’ve got you Gabriel,” Because his little brother might be smitten with the soul he raised from Hell, but he sure isn’t letting his pet ape cut an Arch-Angels throat right there on the coffee table. Turning to his burly shadow the little Seraph puffs himself up like a sparrow and holds his hand out for the Blade. “This is for me to do Dean.” For a second it looks like he’s going to argue, no doubt about responsibility, and guilt, and why he shouldn’t have to shoulder hurting his brother, but maybe the older Winchester isn’t completely blind because he glances at his own brother and nods, relinquishing the Blade quickly.

Last chance.

“Sam, Dean, can you give us a minute.”

Luckily, Sam’s not a complete idiot. “Sure, Cas, just call when you’re ready.”

“Gabriel,”

“I know little brother, just,” pausing he listens to be sure the Winchsters are out of earshot. “I’m glamoured to the hilt under here.”

“Your wounds…?” Poor little sparrow, Cas has ever been spoiled, too much power in his pretty little wings and too much luck.

“Never had the chance to heal properly after… Hell.” He shrugs, like it doesn’t mean anything. “I’ve not had a lick of Grace for longer than I care to admit. Maybe longer. It’s not pretty under here baby bro.”

“The Winchesters do not care about _pretty_.”

Smirking Gabriel gives his little brother the once over. “That why you’re clinging to those baby blues like a limpit?”

“Jimmy’s eyes were brown.” Just for a second Gabriel’s thrown.

“The soul inside…?”

“Gone. Jimmy is in Heaven now. This form is my own. But the eyes have always been blue, since the first night I took this form.”

“Well, would you look at that, baby brother found his True Vessel, all by himself.”

“While it is true this skin fits me comfortably I cannot say for sure if it is my True Vessel.”

“How would you know?”

“I don’t suppose I would.” Castiel shrugs, like it hardly matters. “No one will judge you for your wounds here brother.”

“I will.”

“Then you are more prideful than even I gave you credit for.” Castiel is the picture of frustration, heavy brows pulled down in a steep frown, thick dry lips parted slightly like he’s preparing a speech Gabriel doesn’t want to hear, and a deep, abject frowny face. “No one here will judge you brother.”

“Not like I have a choice.”

“You feel forced into this situation? You are dying Gabriel.”

“I feel like I wish I’d never met the Winchesters. I wish they’d never been born.”

“Brother…”

But Gabriel’s off on it, fury licking up inside him like a viper to bury the fear.

“I was a _god_ little brother. The Pagans worshipped at my altar. I was beautiful, and terrible and _strong_.” He laughs, high and sharp. “And look at me now? You can see, can’t you? Look what _he_ did to me.”

“Gabriel,”

“He took me apart, piece by piece, for _years_ Castiel!” He hissed, rage, hot and tight under his skin, borrowed Grace surging. “You think you know pain. You think the fires of Hell scorched your pretty wings when you pulled Dean from Perdition, that all the mistakes you’ve made since then have _hurt_. You don’t know the half of it! To be torn apart and _bled_ like chattel. To have your Grace pulled from your very core, over and over, until your wings are ash. To be fuc-”

Ever patient, Castiel simply takes the barrage of venom, floppy bed head tossing in the wind of Gabriel’s conjured rage, coat tails flapping around his legs – abruptly it peters out and exhaustion sweeps in. He’s running on fumes; what’s left of him might be enough to give Cassy a hard on but it’s a grain of sand on the moon compared to what Gabriel needs and it’s not like Castiel can’t see what Asmodeus did to him written all over his wings like graffiti art.

The little Seraph is burning, wings tucked tight to his back like a soldier, blue Grace burning in his eyes. When he finds his voice his wings are black with dedication.

“He will never pay the debt he owes, and for that, I am truly sorry brother. But you cannot – I will not _allow_ – you to hold the rest of your life in his dead hands.”

“Life’s in your hands now Cassy,” Gabriel sighs, sitting back and bearing his throat. “Do with it what you will.”

\--------------

Dean’s seen a lot in his years; he spent four decades in Hell after all, and that really opens a mans eyes, but lifting Gabriel’s _human_ shell and carrying it through the Bunker is possibly one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do. Even pissing blood and Grace from his belly Gabriel had still been giving off this aura like he was ten feet tall, but the slim and entirely too fragile form in his arms is damn near nothing. Fuck he weighs less than Lisa had.

Cas says it’s because his _glamors_ had fallen; that this was what Gabriel had been hiding behind layers of Trickster magic. This was what Gabriel had been hiding while they were asking to drain him dry to bridge the gap between worlds.

He smells like blood, and fear, and smoke, a tiny frail thing that Dean’s not quite sure he’s ever going to be able to equate to the Gabriel he’s known. Even bound in Holy Fire Gabriel had been strong; defiant and substantial in his short stack Vessel. The body in his arms is a wisp, rail thin and broken in ways Dean hasn’t seen since Hell. There’s a nick in his ear and it makes Dean sick to his stomach. It’s a calling card, Alistair had taught him it – had learned it from Asmodeus. It’s a signature, and Dean’s sick with the knowledge that beneath his dirty jeans Gabriel’s thighs will be thick with ropey scars from being strapped open and sliced as he was…

Kicking the door open he waits patiently for Sam to pull back the duvet; Gabriel’s room is spattered with wards drawn in sharpie and blood to the point it makes Deans eyes hurt looking at it. Enochian, and Latin and Greek and a hundred other languages Dean doesn’t know and will never learn. Watching Sam fuss and lay out a thick blanket from the infirmary he waits patiently, holding the Trickster a fraction tighter to his chest. He doesn’t like Gabriel, never will probably after everything he’s done, but nothing, _nothing_, deserves that tag.

“Why haven’t any of his wounds disappeared?”

“Gabriel’s Grace has been drained to the point of nothing. While Arch-Angels have vast reservoirs of power, such depletion is damaging to the core. Normally, following such a drain Gabriel would have returned to the Garden to heal and replenish his Grace, but – “

“Metatron shut the Gates.”

“Yes, and Gabriel shut himself off from Heaven long ago. What Grace he had was likely that which he’s held since his – disappearance.”

“Do we need to take him to Heaven?”

“No, we can’t risk it right until the wound heals. Here, in this room he is most protected. Gabriel may not have been the strongest of the Arch-Angels but he was by far the cleverest. Nothing will penetrate this room and he’s instructed me to expand the warding to the rest of the Bunker and the surrounding land.”

“So he’s safe here?”

“Yes Sam, as safe as he would be anywhere outside his own Rhealm. I doubt anyone but Chuck could punch through warding like this. I have not seen it’s like since before your species walked on two legs.”

“I’ll help you ward the rest of the place.”

“Thank you Dean.”

“Dean –“

“Not right now Sammy,” Ducking he let Gabriel’s body slip to the mattress as gently as he could, being careful not to jostle the unconscious form. “You good to patch him up on your own?”

“Work better without an audience.” Shrugging Sam set his bag down by the bed and started rolling up his sleeves.

“I’m am unsure whether Gabriel would want me to –“

“Cas,” He knew his voice was hard, but Dean couldn’t stifle it. Glaring he pointed at the door. “You and I both know Sam is the best for the job. Let him do his job.”

“But –“

“Go get the brushes.”

“Yes Dean.” Grudging, but obedient, Cas frowned and slipped out the door and down the hall after a last lingering glance at his unconscious brother.

“Dean –“

“The nick in his ear,” Dean felt like his blood was on fire, like the pit was licking at him, Alastair’s voice slippery like oil in his ears. “It’s a calling card. Alastair must have learned it from Asmodeus.”

“Yeah?” Curious, Sam tilted his head and peaked at the little nick cut into Gabriel’s ear, it wasn’t huge or obvious, and he was surprised his brother had noticed it at all. “What does it mean?”

“It means he’s been through worse than you can even begin to imagine. It means what you saw when you were in the Cage is just the tip of the iceberg. Be – be careful with him Sammy. It’s not something Alastair did before he started – it’s something he did when he was _finished_.”

“But –“

“Check his legs.” Swallowing, Dean shoved down his revulsion. “He’ll go skitzo I told you but if he’s not healed properly since then and he’s human now… just - check the backs of his thighs.” Like a lightbulb Sam seemed to twig, and his big face paled into something more like horror. Swallowing, he nodded and began pulling out his kit. The gut wound had almost completely stopped bleeding but Gabriel was filthy beneath his magical veneer; blood and fear clinging to him like a cape.

“Maybe he’d prefer if Cas –“

“Cas doesn’t know how.” Dean shrugged as he headed for the door. “Damn Angel’s never had to take care of more than a hangover without you there to doctor him.”

\-------------------------------

** **

The Bunkers wards have always been a bit hit or miss as far as Dean’s concerned. Letting in Demons and Angels at will it seems – but this new stuff, it’s as offensive as it is reassuring. The vials of Jack and Gabriel’s blood has turned the magnolia paint a shade of pink Dean isn’t sure he’s entirely comfortable with, but Sam’s tablet is easy enough to copy the strings of symbols off and Dean’s been around the block enough that he even recognises a couple of them.

“So - this is what? Advanced Warding for Douchebags?”

“Gabriel is – old.” Cas grumbles, painstakingly copying the images on the tablet. “Arch-Angel magic is different, it’s based in the same power that Chuck used when he cut off pieces of himself to make them in the first place. The glyphs pre-date all languages. You must remember Dean, that Gabriel was beyond ancient by your standards even before The Fall. I imagine he’s also learned a few tricks since. He hid from Heaven, and our Father, for millennia after Lucifer was cast out. The entire Host thought him dead for thousands of years.”

“So this should keep out –“

“Probably everything except what really needs to be kept out.” Cas confesses, shrugging apologetically.

“Yeah, ‘How to Keep God Off Your Lawn’ - not exactly in the field manual.”

“It will likely be enough for now. Gabriel believes Chuck really does fear Jack. I don’t think he’d have risked coming back here with such a plan if he wasn’t desperate. Jack is not an Arch-Angel, he’s much stronger. Maybe as strong as Chuck in his own ways/ Our Father is not what he once was. It might be enough.”

Dean’s not stupid. It’s never going to be enough.

“Just how strong is he?”

“Technically Michael was strongest of all.” Cas hums. “The First Son of Heaven, but Michael was born from our Fathers sense of _Duty_. He is, and always has been our guardian, a soldier. Lucifer, Second Son of Heaven, born from our Fathers _Love_ – the favoured son. Raphael, the Arch-Angel of _Obedience_. He was our Fathers guiding hand amongst the halls of Heaven, I believe you’d call him a ‘paper pusher’. Gabriel, the Arch-Angel of _Loyalty_. Gabriel was the first to bow to humanity, even before Michael, the Angel trusted most with Gods Word.”

“Duty, Obedience, Loyalty – and _Love_?” Dean scoffs.

“Lucifer was the favoured son, destined to inherit the throne of Heaven. Our Father believed love was a crucial lesson for that role. Duty, Obedience, and Loyalty are favourable and functional skills, but _love_, what would you not do for love Dean?”

Snorting Dean flicks out the little tree like symbol he’s been finishing. Half of Gabriel’s spell work looks like children’s drawings. A star, and tree, what looks a bit like a tyre iron but might be a candy cane, it’s as far from spell work as Dean’s ever seen but Cas is copying it dutifully like it holds the answers they are looking for.

“He isn’t very loving though is he?”

“We do many strange things for love Dean.”

“Like end the world?”

Cas pauses and turns a disbelieving eye on his friend. “Dean. I alone have opened Purgatory, unleashed the Leviathan, murdered thousands of my brothers and sisters, brought Heaven to its knees –“ He cuts off, shame radiating from his shoulders, and for a second Dean thinks he can _just_ see where he’d tuck his wings around him tight if they existed here.

“When you put it like that…”

“You cannot know.” Cas confesses, eyes turned down. “But the things I have done. They far surpass Lucifer’s crimes. Lucifer did what he did in defence of _Heaven_. I did it in defence of _you_.”

The pregnant pause that leaks out across the room makes Deans skin itch. Because – yeah – he’d never really looked at it like that.

“So putting that aside for now – for arguments sake – why did Lucifer get sent to the naughty step and you keep getting an upgrade?”

Cas flinches, then rolls it into a loose shrug. “I have never deserved to be saved where my brothers and sisters were left to oblivion.”

“So what – Lucifer refuses to bow to humanity, defends the Angels, gets send to the Cage. You though – you refuse to bow to Angels, defend humanity – get an upgrade?”

“I do not think I will ever be saved again.” Cas shrugs. “In defying Chucks orders to kill Jack - I think you would say – I’ve burned that bridge.”

“But killing Angels of your own free will it’s all good? Something’s not adding up here.”

“You cannot possibly expect to know Chucks will.”

“No,” Dean agrees, nodding his head thoughtfully. “But if we look at this like just another case it starts to look really suspicious. We’ve been _assuming _up to this point that everyone had a plan – that _Chuck _had an endgame. What if he doesn’t?”

“How can he not?”

“Chuck’s a writer, yeah? That’s what he told Sam. We’re his favourite show. You know what sucks the most about your favourite show?”

“I do not have a favourite show Dean.”

“Liar!” Dean laughs, bright and sudden like he’s stumbled on a pleasant surprise. “You’ve watched Vampire Diaries like 50 times but you know what you _haven’t _watched?” Deans bouncing, giddy with discovery and practically vibrating in his boots. “The _ending_ Cas! You’ve seen every episode like 50 times but you refuse point blank to watch the _end_.”

Cas is flushed a deep hot red, tv privileges is something that they’ve argued about before, Dean does _not_ approve of handsome, charismatic vampires – though his outbursts had visibly deflated following his return from Purgatory and his friendship with Benny.

“I do not wish to see it end.”

“Yatzee!” Reaching out he taps Cas right on the end of the nose with the back end of the brush, smirking when he reaches up and rubs his nose with a deep frown. “Every time we get close, every time we’re an inch from peaceful and fucking _happy_, it all comes fucking tumbling down. It’s a _show_ Cas. Chuck doesn’t want it to end. The show must go on!”

“I don’t understand.”

“What if – bear with me here – back in the Fall, Chucks bored, his kids are happy, humanities growing like a weed, he’s finished putting up the new wallpaper and while he’s sitting back looking at this brand new house he realises something – what the fuck did I make paradise for? Paradise is _boring_. So he asks Lucifer to bow. He asks the _future king of heaven_ to bow to the mud monkeys. He’s not going to do that, who the fuck would? You ask me to bow to the ant people, I’m going to tell you to swing it. Presto – villain, war, big bad, etc etc. Shit hits the fan, but then it settles down eventually, what’s a Chuck to do. Well, can’t pull the same trick twice – so he leaves. Power vacuum, _drama_.”

“You’re suggesting that our Father instigated all of this because he was _bored_?!” Cas is a lot more shocked than Dean really thinks he should be by this point.

“We _know_ he does shit like this because he’s bored.”

“Continue.” Cas, strong, thoughtful Cas nods regally and gets back to painting while Dean figures out his thought process.

“Ok, The Apocalypse. Raphael said they had orders. What if – bear with me here – what if their orders were to _start_ the Apocalypse. Not finish it – just start it. Start the ball rolling. What if that’s what Chuck does – start stuff, and then just watch it happen.”

“That is a good way of describing the creation of the universe.” Cas shrugs. Like this ground breaking revelation is just another one of Deans rants on why pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza.

“Ok, then what if we roll that out to every big fight we’ve ever had…”

“You are giving me your expectant face – like you assume I know where you are going with this thought pattern –“

“Ok, apply the same logic to _everything_.”

“I don’t under-“

“He started it. _All_ of it. The Fall, The Apocalypse, the death, destruction, he could have snapped his fingers and stopped it at any second so why didn’t he? If he didn’t want a Nephilim like Jack being born, why didn’t he snap his almighty fingers and give the devil the worst case of performance anxiety out there? Why _let_ it happen – if you don’t want it to happen?”

“Perhaps he did not understand the threat Jack would pose until later.”

“_Perhaps_ he wanted us to step through a rift in space time and bring back something worse – perhaps he wanted another few seasons of near-death experiences.”

“You hypothesise that Chuck chose to create this strife, simply to perpetuate said strife.”

Dean shrugs, like ‘well, don’t you?’.

“Why then ask us to kill Jack now?”

“Jack, theoretically, is more powerful than all the Arch-Angels, right?”

“Yes. He’s proven to be more powerful than anything we’ve seen from Chuck until recently.”

“We’re as close as we’ve ever been to ending it all. Big bad after big bad put down. We’re running head long towards early retirement, the kid’s the best nuclear deterrent a hunter could wish for – then bam!” Cas has watched Dean struggle with horror after horror, but the sheer bone-deep sorrow that seeps from him now is a tidal wave of despair. “Who’s left Cas? Just us. We’re not enough.”

It’s true, Castiel has watched Dean fight his way back from betrayal, death, and destruction; but here and now a flutter of apprehension racks through him. Somehow, despite the forgiveness he’s found, and the dedication he’s putting into making time for Jack – Dean’s broken in a way Cas isn’t sure he can come back from. Emotion ripples through him, despair, fear, desolation, guilt, and finally, hot burning anger. Tossing the brush to the floor he growls and spins on the hunter.

“So what? You just sit here and grow old? Hide, run, let Chuck _end_ you? End everything you’ve – WE -have fought for?”

“Cas –“

“No!” Throwing his hands out Cas rakes his hand through his hair, a bright spike of baby pink smearing into his floppy fringe. “This – it’s too big Dean! I have watched you and your brother defeat evil everywhere you turn your gaze – and Chuck – whatever he was. What he has become – I fear this is the greatest evil of all. We’ve all made mistakes. But to watch this –“

“_Cas…_” And he is trying. Castiel can see that. But he’s tired. His soul, as bright as ever is dulled by the human shell around it to the point a sick blue twilight has shaded the gold throughout. “I mean sure Lucifer, and Michael, and the God Squad – We didn’t think we could do it and _here we are. _But… GOD Cas. Actually, fucking GOD. We can’t fight that.”

“You diminish your achievements to sooth you aching lack of self-worth?” Cocking his head Castiel watches him, serenity returning.

“What?”

“You forget what you have done Dean, and the struggles you have won.” Cas shrugs, intent and focused.

“We had friends, _family_, Cas, people on the side lines, every time. It wasn’t just us.”

“Dean Winchester, your ignorance never ceases to astound me.” Dean is shaking now, just minutely, fingers clutching his brush just hard enough to shake. “You and your brother, have defeated monsters, demons, and Angels, Arch-Angels, The Knights of Hell. Dean you killed _Death_. You have fought friend and foe and saved so many. You may lack Faith in yourself – but I do not.”

“We didn’t do it alone.”

“You are never alone Dean.”

“Don’t look at me like that Cas –“

“Like what.”

“Like – all soft and fucking _trusting_.” Flailing his hand Dean gets back to painting, ignoring the soft smirk Cas is just _radiating_.

“You gather believers to you like moths to a flame Dean.” He shrugs, trench coat shifting fluid and familiar over his shoulders. “You gather all these broken people around you and make them whole. You don’t think you can beat Chuck alone? You are, and never have been, alone.” Spreading his arms he lowers his head and glances up through his lashes. “You hold Earth all around you, Hell beneath your feet, and Heaven before you. What has all this taught you – if not how to use what you have at your disposal. Gather your army Dean.”

“I’m not who you think I am Cas.”

“Has it occurred to you Dean Winchester, that maybe there are those who know you better than you know yourself?” And so saying, he turns back to his warding, focused and peaceful, tracing out long strings of winged characters in old magnolia paint and his sons blood.


	5. Chapter 5

Welcome to the End

CHAPTER 5

Sam’s been sitting on the edges of the bed for a quarter of an hour before he finds the guts to get started. Gabriel, despite his many years masquerading as a human, obviously hasn’t been keeping quite on top of his general hygiene since he got back. They’re going to have to figure out where he’s been all this time, and how many bodies he left him behind him but for now Sam lays that aside to focus on the task at hand.

It’s difficult, just looking at him is giving Sam an itchy uncomfortable feeling – not dissimilar to when a vengeful spirit really doesn’t want you in their house. Gabriel is many things but relaxed about his personal space with anything besides his illusions hasn’t ever really been one of them. He reminds Sam a bit of a small nervous dog; oh he'll play fetch with you but he won't let you scratch behind his ears.

His clothes are different from the ones he was wearing in the other dimension but they’re ill-fitting and filthy. The too long jeans are stiff with filth half-way up his shin and the t-shirt and over-shirt combo are massive.

He’s lost weight; where the t-shirt has slipped down a bright white collar bone stands out from his skin, and his cheeks bones are sharp and cutting beneath heavy black and blue eyelids.

There’s a hint of blood crusted around the edge of his lip and now that Sam’s had time to breath, he’s also had time to realise that Gabriel reeks. It’s not like he hadn’t noticed before but studying him is an odd combination of contrary information. Gabriel himself is clean, he’s obviously been showering, his hair is fluffy and his skin is milky white in the harsh overhead lighting, but somewhere along the way someone forgot to get him new clothes or to take a proper look at the wound.

There’s the sweet, sickly iron tang of blood, but there’s also the nose curling sourness of infection and an underlying tone of damp that reminds Sam of hidden places beneath the earth, and newly dug graves. Gabriel’s skin might be mostly clean, but he still smells dead.

Swallowing, he stands and putters through the small door to the attached bathroom carrying the basin he’d brought. This room isn’t the only one with its own en-suite but it’s one of the smaller ones and deeper inside the Bunker than they’ve really used until now. There’s the usual bath, toilet and sink but no shower cubicle or open space like some of the plusher rooms in the higher levels like Dean picked out. A low level recruit or apprentice room. Functional, and spartan. It’s so far from what Gabriel should be doing that it momentarily makes Sam’s soul ache.

Filling the basin with hot water he dumps in a generous dose of anti-septic and slinks back to the main bedroom. He’s looking forward to this about as much as he wants a hole in the head but Dean’s right, Cas, despite his brief and informative adventures as a person, has no idea how to deal with shit like this and none of them know Grace resistant magic well enough to risk spell work.

The hardest bit is peeling away the crusted layers, thankful that Gabriel has obviously been showering even if he hasn’t been actually getting changed, Sam sets about trimming the cloth away with the sharp medical scissors. These do not require rescue. He’ll find him something else later. Checking the pockets as he goes he leaves the candy bar wrappers and a gas station receipt where he finds them but removes a small shell and pebble to place on the bedside table just in case. You never know with Angels; Cas collects fucking succulents of all things, and he’s got enough knick-knacks that Dean’s verbally concerned that one day they’re going to lose him in his room never to be seen again.

Beneath the matt of filthy stolen cloths, the wound in his side is horrible. It’s raised, red and raw around the edges, and seeping gently where Sam has pulled away the haphazard pad of bandages. There’s no creeping tendrils of true sepsis yet but it smells like old milk and there’s dead tissue on the edges of the wound beginning to fester. The edges are strange.

There’s a thin band of clean scarring, presumably where it had begun to heal before Gabriel really tapped back into the Pagan mojo, but between there and the remaining wound there’s a good half inch of what Sam can only describe as Damascus steel scarring. It’s healed in tiny waves of scar tissue, separated by new skin, and scarring, creating a lattice unlike anything he’s ever seen, like rings on a tree, or wrinkles in the sand.

In the center a gaping ugly gash where the convoluted triple blade has punched right up into his chest cavity, presumably, miraculously, missing anything vital. It’s not a killing blow, but an ugly stomach wound, designed to kill over time, like Michael knew Gabriel would survive the burn out of his Grace and wanted him to die slow. Sam’s never been a big believer in this Pagan-God-Arch-Angel hybrid thing that he’s got going on but it certainly wasn’t Grace keeping him alive those first weeks till he rocked back into his own dimension. Could have been stubbornness right enough.

He can only hope that the intermittent stop-gag of magic and Grace has healed enough that this is within their grasp to fix.

“Ok Gabriel,” He huffs to himself, if only to break the quiet. “I’m going to clean this, and you’re not going to wake up and punch my lights out, ok?”

Ignoring the complete silence he gets in reply Sam soaks the towels he brought and begins the arduous process of debriding the wound, peeling and snipping away damaged flesh until the clean meat below starts to seep hot red blood at him.

It takes longer than he planned, but eventually the soft skin of Gabriel’s abdomen is snow white and the wound is clean. He’s treated it with everything he’s got in the field kit and there’s a pile of discarded clothes on the floor he’ll need to get rid of soon.

The one bonus about having had a full team of hunters in the Bunker is the infirmary still being vastly over-stocked with enough medical supplies to last them lifetimes.

Dean’s been calling it the MedBay like the truly awful nerd he actually is, but having Charlie on site again had fleshed out the supply closets and fake bank accounts, in ways Sam’s not going to sniff at.

Scrubbed out with anti-septic, and dabbed liberally with one of the most promising looking tubes of ointment in the supply cupboard the wound is pink and bleeding sluggishly, but he’s scared to stitch it closed again until it looks a little less green around the edges, so he slaps on a self-adhesive pad with what Charlie calls ‘silver micro-weave’ and calls it a day for now. The dressing packet advises changing twice a day, but they healed Nick up just fine so Sam’s not hugely worried. The packet of antibiotics goes on the bedside table, alongside a little packet of the good painkillers.

Satisfied that the main event is well in hand Sam moves on and takes a minute to stare resolutely at the mud caked denims drowning Gabriel’s legs. He honestly can’t imagine anything he’d rather do less than strip the Arch-Angel out of his pants while unconscious – they hadn’t thought to have this conversation beforehand, assuming Gabriel would be awake for the endeavour, but there’s not exactly time to just wait. Cas had been pretty sure Gabriel was going to be out for a while. Angels apparently need a lot of sleep. Or maybe Sam and Dean are just too used to never taking enough.

Picking up the scissors he trims up the inside legs and carefully averts his eyes when it turns out that underwear hadn’t been high on the list of priorities either.

Slipping a sheet over the unconscious Angel, Sam takes a breath. His thighs, just as Dean had predicted are a lattice of fine, spiderwebbing scars, almost beautiful in their own way but they make Sam sick to the bottom of his stomach in a way he doesn’t know how to swallow down. Luckily the scars are healed, because Sam’s not entirely sure what he’d have done if they hadn’t been.

Tucking him in loosely he piles all the detritus into the abandoned basin, piles the remnants of his clothing on top and slips out to find some new clothes.

\--------------------

Jack is making a mess at the kitchen table when Sam finally makes it back up to the main floor. He’s using the bottom of the milk carton to crush an industrial sized bag of cornflakes into a fine powder. Sam’s watched this routine for weeks but it still makes him smile when the kid pours the now powdered flakes into a bowl and adds enough honey to kill a small child. The milk follows, leaving a splash across the table as it bounces off the honey shell. This ridiculous cornflake porridge is Jack’s favourite breakfast but Dean complains about crumbs so often that he only makes it when he knows he’s busy elsewhere. Glancing guiltily at Sam he cleans up the mess and shoves a spoon in the bowl.

“How is Gabriel?”

“Not good,” Sam sighs, shrugging as he dumps the bloody and filthy clothing into the bin. At one point, the Bunker had a trash chute and an incinerator but that’s long since dead and cold. “The wounds a bit funky.”

“Funky?” Watching Jack eat cornflake mush goes a long way to reminding Sam how young he actually is. There’s something about Jack that gives off this aura of power and age, but scratch beneath the surface and he’s a conflicting mess of innocence and confusion that Sam’s never quite sure how to deal with. It reminds him uncomfortably of Michael wearing Adams skin years ago. Power and age, hidden in a shell of youth. They’ve spent months trying to figure out whether to treat Jack like a child or an adult, but every step forward seems to produce a different step back. Since his return from the Empty he’s refused to use his powers again in any real way, and while Sam’s glad there’s been no accidents, he’s also not entirely sure how they’re meant to do this without him.

“He’s human for now, all the way, the wound’s infected but he’ll heal.”

“You’re sure?” Glancing across the kitchen Sam sighs, broad shoulders slumping as he slides into one of the chairs at the table.

“No, I don’t think any of us can really be sure of anything right now. But he’s strong Jack. Gabriel’s been dead more times than I can count. If anyone can pull through this – he can.”

“Yeah kid, little shit’s been dead more times than your dad.”

“Dean!”

“What? I’m not wrong. We’ve killed him what, twice? Four if you wanna argue semantics.” Shrugging Dean rocks into the kitchen and dumps the brushes in the sink. “Little bastard’s a cockroach. He’ll be fine.”

“Where Cas?”

“Angel-ing symbols around the yard.”

“What does he think?”

“A lot of shit.”

“You’re in an excellent mood aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t you be? We’re at war. With God."

And he’s not wrong, but he’s not right either, and Sam’s tongue sticks fast to the roof of his mouth as Dean collects a handful of beers and storms out.

“I don’t think we’re at war.” Jack shrugs. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world to sit back and eat cereal while God plots the end of the world. And really, Sam huffs. He’s not wrong, but’s right either.

\--------------------

Tracking down clothes for Gabriel proves more difficult than Sam originally thought. He projects an aura ten foot tall but Gabriel’s a munchkin in real life, and nothing the Winchesters own is going to look at him. Figuring she’s going to be in Scotland with Rowena long enough to put them back he ends up with a pair of jeans stolen from Charlie’s room, a brand new white shirt and underwear from Jack, and an old Stanford hoody from the depths of his own wardrobe. It’s not exactly ideal but he’d sent everything Gabriel brought with him into the trash bar the small shell and the pebble on the bedside table.

He hasn’t moved a muscle by the time Sam gets back, and loath to start manhandling him again he plants the pile of laundry on the desk and his ass in the chair. There’s no boots but nothing they have will fit him anyway, and if – when - he wakes up they’re going to have to take him shopping anyway.

It’s painful, to sit by and watch him sleep; Sam’s not even sure he is asleep. He might be in a coma. He might be brain dead, or gone, or any manner of things they hadn’t had time to figure out before jumping headlong into this absolutely hair brained idea. No one thought to ask if the Pagan magic was what had kept Gabriel Gabriel all this time. No one had thought to ask if wiping away every trace of magic would wipe away every trace of self. He might never wake up, or he might wake up blank. Either way, Sam settles in for a long wait. Because if – when – he does wake up. He won’t be alone.


End file.
